


Stella by Starlight

by Wood



Category: Hey Arnold!
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24203281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wood/pseuds/Wood
Summary: [A TJM epilogue from the perspective of Stella]A week after returning to Sunset Arms, Miles and Stella reflect on their journey and share a romantic evening together for the first time in many years.
Relationships: Miles Shortman & Stella Shortman
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Stella by Starlight

Stella by Starlight

“Are you _sure,_ Arnold?”  
“You can sleep with us as long as you want—until you’re 20, for all I care!”  
“No thanks, I want to sleep in my own room tonight.”  
Arnold gazed at his parents with loving eyes. Stella smiled understandingly and nodded, but Miles’ eyes were glistening as he stuck his lower lip out in a pout. They knelt together with their son in the doorway to room number eight, unoccupied for the entirety of their nine-year hiatus from Hillwood, Sunset Arms Boarding House, and the realm of the living.  
“We’ll be right down the hall if you need anything, or if you change your mind.” Miles added unnecessarily.  
Arnold smiled and nodded. “I know. Goodnight Dad, Mom.”  
He hugged them for a moment, then turned and headed up the stairs to his room. His door, though only a few feet away from theirs, seemed like an impassable wall to the newly awakened parents. But this wall was nothing to the vast wall of time and memory that now separated them from their boy.  
As they heard Arnold’s bedroom door click shut from above, Stella slowly closed their own door, leaning against it as she did. She stared at the floor a moment, then glanced up at Miles. He was sitting on the edge of their bed, looking up at her with a face like a helpless puppy. She tried to think of something reassuring to say, but couldn’t quite yet, so instead her eyes wandered the small room.  
In the week since their return it had been filled with all of their worldly possessions, kept safe partly in the dusty attic of Sunset Arms, partly by the mysterious Green Eyed People in a cavernous storage room—but a majority of the items were recently acquired; gifts from the Green Eyes. Multicolored blankets of woven Alpaca wool and lavishly embroidered cotton lay piled atop a double-sized mattress and box-springs set which rested directly on the floor. Carved wooden folding tables stood at either side of the bed, each supporting a plain bedside lamp and a few framed family photos. Elaborate wood and stone statues dotted the room as well, and open suitcases full of old clothing and dusty memories lay strewn about the floor. Here and there were overflowing canvas bags of trinkets. A carved jade jewelry box full of gold ornaments, gifted to Stella, sat upon the dresser. Hanging on the opposite wall were several wooden clubs, blow pipes and fighting sticks, most of them inlayed with shells and carvings and bedecked with feathers—all gifted to Miles. The Lord and Lady of the Green Eyed People had presented these special artifacts to Miles and Stella themselves, who at that point had given up trying to refuse the grateful people’s offerings. When the priceless items wrapped in decorative cloths were presented to them, they could do nothing but kneel and politely accept them.  
Though the gifts were all spectacular, Stella thought that by far the most wondrous item in the room was the tapestry hanging on the wall behind the bed.  
Done in a rush the day after the Green Eyed People were revived, it was nonetheless a magnificent work of art. The top portion showed small renderings of the large paintings in the upper level of the Green Eyes’ sacred pyramid. They depicted how Miles and Stella prepared the medicine to cure the Sleeping Sickness, and the prophecy that their son would use the golden _corazón_ to activate the cure-diffusing mechanism. The images read right to left, like a comic strip. But the bottom half of the tapestry was one huge scene, with all the people of the village rising, awakened, in clouds of green rain and purple butterflies. The Lord and Lady of the Green Eyes were among them, in the lower right corner, and opposite them were Miles and Stella. Both sets of parents gazed adoringly toward the center of the tapestry, where the majestic Great Pyramid stood. On its steps were gathered all the children of the village and the Princess of the Green Eyes. At the pyramid’s summit was a large green dial, with a golden heart in the middle of it, held in place by two children. One of them was, of course, Arnold.  
“I miss him already,” Miles said sadly, breaking the silence. Perhaps he had noticed her staring at the tapestry.  
Stella smiled at him. “Me too.”  
She paced over to the bed and sat down next to her man, sliding a gentle hand over his robust shoulder. The years they spent asleep had atrophied much of their strength, but thanks to blessings from the Green Eyes and Gertie’s cooking they were recovering quickly, and her husbands shoulders were already starting to feel strong and supple again. She hoped they would soon be as they were before their illness...what Stella jokingly called their “nine-year nap.”  
But cute names were a front. The terrible disease that kept the mother from her son for so long, robbed her of his precious childhood, and forced her son to grow up as an orphan—her eyes filled with tears. It was all too heavy to think of, for the moment.  
_I have to be strong, for Miles,_ she thought, and pushed painful thoughts from her mind.  
“Hey,” she said in what she hoped was a cheerful sounding voice, “Look on the bright side, darling. This is the first night we’ve been awake and alone together in nearly a decade.”  
Miles lifted his head off his hands, staring at his lovely wife. “You’re right,” he said, breaking into a grin. Inspiration struck him as took her hands in his, and his green eyes twinkled. “And I’m going to make it count! Stella, you stay _right here._ Meet me on the roof in half an hour.”  
He kissed her hands delicately, then stood and rushed out the door without another word. She smiled and shook her head. That was just like Miles—always inspired, always taking the initiative, trying to be the protective provider he idealized.  
He was so much a part of her. She felt they were closer now even than before they fell ill... for he was the only one who had been with her the entire time. He was the only one who had experienced the same trauma of leaving a baby behind and waking up to a son half-grown.  
She tried to recall the last few days before their slumber. It was a fuzzy whirl of fear and helplessness. But she definitely remembered thinking, _Miles will pull through. If I succumb to the Black Sleep, he will revive me._ But it had not been Miles who rescued her. It was their 10 year-old son. How could they have let that burden fall to him? Even stranger, how had he managed to find them, recover the _corazón,_ lose it, and activate the aromatherapy mechanism _without_ the key? It made her head spin to contemplate.  
She and her husband had spent every moment of the last week, waking and sleeping, with Arnold. Falling asleep was sometimes difficult for them, but it was incredible as parents to open their eyes each morning and see their son nestled between them. But Stella still felt she didn’t know him as a mother should know her son. As far as she could tell, he was polite and good-natured, with a strong sense of ethics he must have gotten from Gertie. But she had only seen one side of him, happy, ecstatic, joyful... she longed to know more about the person he had become without them, to see his darker side, his melancholy. Not that she wished for any sorrow to befall to him, of course. But the mother, robbed of the chance to raise her son, couldn’t help but feel an emptiness deep in her heart.  
_Time mends all wounds,_ she said to herself, and got up to check on Miles.  
She crept down the hallway and peered down the stairs into the dining room. Most of the tenants were in their rooms or asleep, but there was light coming from the kitchen, accompanied by the sounds and smells of sizzling meat and...was that oregano? It had been so long. There was a clanging sound and Miles’ voice was heard, “Ow.”  
Stella stifled a laugh and turned back to head toward the roof. She opened the small, creaky door and stepped out into the cool night air. The wind fluttered the skirt of her embroidered cotton muumuu, tickling her toes. She giggled shyly and smiled. They had spent many special nights up here. Miles would always play the romantic, putting out a dining table with plastic candles (real ones were always blown out by the wind) and an old turntable he usually set with a jazz record. She wondered if it was still around somewhere. Contemplating this, she went off in search of it.

While rummaging through dusty artifacts in the dim attic room, it was hard to avoid distractions.  
_There’s the crib. He doesn’t need that anymore. Don’t think about it, Stella,_ she told herself.  
Fortunately, it didn’t take long to locate the old wooden record player. She inspected it. It certainly looked older than when she last used it, but there was no sign of damage. She supposed she’d have to plug it in to test it—but not here. Next to it was a moldering box of vinyl records. She sifted through it and pulled out one of her favorite staples by Miles Davis. Arms full, she pushed the attic door closed with her foot, and made her way back to the roof. She tried her best to tread lightly, hoping not to wake her son or any of the boarders sleeping below. Under a tarp she discovered the trusty old folding table and two chairs, still in their same storage spot, and set them up in her favorite rooftop corner. 

Dark, soft clouds pulled away from the magnificent moon like satin sheets, unveiling the great shining orb and its choir of stars, bathing the rooftop in moon and starlight. She inhaled deeply the night air and tossed a printed blanket over the table. She set the record player on an egg crate near the closest power outlet, plugged it in, and placed the needle on the record. The sound crackled at first, followed by a few low bass notes, steady rhythmic symbols, and the crooning call of a lonely saxophone filled the air. Stella closed her eyes to the sweet music. It had been so long....  
An unsteady clinking of plates heralded her husband, who appeared shakily in the rooftop doorway, arms laden with far too many dishes for one person to hold. Stella laughed as she ran to him to help him with his burden. She took a large silver pot from the crook of his elbow and a boat of red sauce from his fingertips and set them in the center of the table. He placed two sets of plates and silverware on the table in front of each of the chairs, accompanied by two fine crystal wine glasses. With some effort, he produced a bottle of aged Merlot that had been crammed into the cargo pocket of his shorts.  
Stella tut-tutted as he poured a glass for each of them. “I would have helped you carry all that,” she teased, taking her seat.  
He shrugged nonchalantly, taking his own. “I had it under control.” He smirked at her with a familiar air of mock-confidence, at which she chuckled.  
It filled her heart with amorous love, sitting there with him—they had been through so much together, so much pain and worry and heartbreak, but _this_ was just like old times. ‘The good old days,’ she supposed they could be called now. She reached out a moonlit arm and took his hand in her own.  
“I’m so glad we’re here,” she said to him, smiling.  
“Me too,” he agreed, “and him,” he quickly added, nodding across the rooftop to the window under which their son slept.  
Stella nodded and smiled wider, unable to take her eyes off her husband. They were filled with tears, of a happy kind this time, and she leaned forward and kissed him. It was a soft, slow kiss; they hadn’t kissed like that in years. Miles’ cheeks were flushed when she pulled away. He stared at her like a schoolboy who’d just received his first smooch.  
“Wow,” he said simply, with a small smirk, high as his name would imply.  
His wife simply smiled, blinking the slow blink of a woman tipsy with love.  
Miles seemed to return to the ground as the smell of delicious tomatoes and herbs washed over them, lifted from the spread by the cool night breeze.  
He rubbed his hands together. “Now, let’s eat!”  
With a carved wooden spoon, Miles distributed to each plate a wad of spaghetti, and dealt to each one a scoop of sauce and three comically large meatballs. Stella had to roll her eyes when she saw the balls. Her husband always kept the “go big or go home” attitude, especially when it came to cooking.  
He sat, pleased with his spread, and lifted his glass to her. She lifted hers in turn.  
“To you, Stella,” he said.  
“To both of us,” she cut in.  
He nodded and continued, “and to our son, Arnold.”  
“To Arnold!” she agreed, and they touched glasses and drank.

Arnold rustled in his bedsheets. He tossed and turned, frowning in his sleep, but was awakened by a muffled clinking and the smooth notes of a familiar Miles Davis record drifting through his rooftop window. He rubbed the nightmares out of his head with a sweaty palm, and turned his gaze upward.  
Climbing the footholds in his wall, he peered out through the window at the rooftop scene. The boy spied his parents sharing a romantic dinner together, and the tinkling sounds of dinnerware and their musical laughter reached his ears from across the roof. He climbed back down, feeling relieved and bursting with joy. He leaned back against the wall, grinning widely. His eyes closed, and he pulled his fluffy comforter up around his shoulders. It was so _good_ to have parents— _his very own_ parents—and to know they loved him and each other. He felt as though a hole in his heart had been filled with golden light, and slowly, he drifted back off to sleep.

The dinner was all but finished (and it had been delicious) when Miles recognized the soft piano intro to one of his favorite tracks, “Stella by Starlight.” He stood, holding out his hand to his wife. She took it, and together they glided to the center of the rooftop.  
“It’s our song,” he said to her, taking her waist with his free hand as they started to sway.  
“ _Your_ song,” she corrected him.  
“I like it because it reminds me of you,” he said.  
“Because of the title,” she added skeptically.  
“Maybe,” he mused, looking thoughtful.  
They danced slowly for a moment under the moon and stars, enjoying the night and each other.  
“You look more radiant tonight than ever,” he said softly.  
“Nonsense,” she waved his compliment away. “I’ve turned into an old woman.”  
“The silver in your hair keeps moonlight as it’s captive,” he replied, stroking her silky strands. They indeed seemed to glow under the stars.  
“Yours too,” she reached up with both hands and pushed her fingers through the white streaks in his bristly blonde hair, then brought her hands down to frame his face. His cheeks were warm, his eyes warmer.  
He too seemed even more handsome than the first time she laid eyes on him, in the steamy jungle many years ago. She tried to think of how a clever way to tell him this, but nothing in her head seemed to describe it properly. Miles has always been the one with the poet’s tongue, in any case.  
The piercing voice of the sax cut through the soft piano and bass like a knife through butter, and its cry sang out into the night. A few people in neighboring houses opened their windows to let the smooth sax flow into their bedrooms. One or two observant tenants could even make out the silhouette of two lovers, twirling elegantly under the veil of night.  
Stella put her head on Miles’ shoulder. _I’m finally here,_ she thought, swaying with her man, _This is right where I’m supposed to be._  
“Thank you, Arnold,” she whispered quietly to the wind as they waltzed, hand in hand, bathed in starlight.

End


End file.
